


Afterburn

by inlovewithnight



Category: BSG - Fandom
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-06-07
Updated: 2007-06-07
Packaged: 2017-10-15 15:07:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/162045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlovewithnight/pseuds/inlovewithnight





	Afterburn

There's a flight-deck rule, Fleet-wide, pounded into the heads of every wide-eyed wannabe pilot, ECO, and knuckledragger who ever wore a trainee's uniform: no sex in the planes. A thousand deck chiefs screamed at two thousand Viper jockeys to find a storage closet if they really got off that much on their own flying; uncountable support crew volunteered their racks, since the back of the Raptors are off-limits.

No sex in the planes. Easy rule. Right up there with "check the rank pins before you cuss 'em out."

Racetrack pops the hatch on Raptor 5 and smirks back over her shoulder at Crashdown, daring him to follow her inside. Her jacket's unbuttoned, he can taste the ambrosia on her lips where it transferred to his own, and her eyes are bright and hot with challenge.

Rules are made to be broken.  
**  
 _He found water. He was a gods-damned hero._

 _Nobody cared. They cared about the water, sure, everybody was half-crazy for that. Just nobody gave a shit **who** found it, or if they did, they said "Boomer 'n Crash." Just like he'd thought--bus driver takes the credit._

 _All he asked for was just one little half-credit's worth of respect._

 _"Frak you," Racetrack said, blowing a stream of smoke in his face; she'd won a cigar off Starbuck and wasn't letting anyone forget it. "You want laurel leaves and glory and bullshit, you picked the wrong line of work, kid."_

 _"Kid?" he echoed, glaring at her, and she laughed at him, bumming a sip off one of the bottles they weren't supposed to have. There was water now, no more excuses to drink wine._

 _"You don't want me to call you that?" She cocked her head to the side and he cursed under his breath, hating this ship, these people. Not his crew. He didn't even know them. They were all frakking crazy and she was right up near the top of the list._

 _"What do you want me to call you, then? Baby?" She took another sip and stepped closer, close enough that he could smell the slow-burning cigar still in her free hand. "You want to be my baby, Crash?"_

 _He knew this game, these steps; Raptor crews everywhere broke in their own, the more senior jocks getting in the mood to go hunting and dragging the nuggets off to dark corners. He knew this. He'd_ done _this._

 _She leaned in and kissed him, hard and square on the middle of his mouth, biting his lip as she pulled away. "Cylons got your tongue?" A significant pause, a posed puff on the cigar. He recognized it as an imitation of Starbuck, or maybe a parody; the smirk around the edges of her lips suggested the latter. "Or your dick?"_

 _"Frak you," he said reflexively._

 _She laughed and handed the cigar to Boomer, then wiped her palms on her trousers. "Bring it on, baby. Bring it on."_  
**  
"Get the hatch," she says, stripping off her jacket and tossing it to the floor. "Last thing we need is Chief's ugly ass showing up in the middle of things."

"You really think nobody's going to notice?" It's an idle question, not nerves; he could give a shit who knows he's frakking Racetrack, given that it'll be a notch on her locker and broken down into ten-second intervals in the showers tomorrow morning. He's buying a minute to watch her drop her uniform pants, see her legs appear pale and muscled in the dim light. He's always had a thing for that.

She laughs and tosses the trousers after the jacket, standing there in her shorts and tanks. "So what if they do? Five minute lecture from Tigh. What a loss. You going to stand there all day or you going to get naked, _baby_?"

The word has an edge and so does her smile, and frak him but he likes it. Ensign Davis is sweet and admiring and he'll eat dinner with her in the mess before they go back to her rack, but Racetrack is all challenge and insults and bravado, and he can't take his eyes off her, can't get enough.

He strips down to his dog tags and she steps out of her shorts, kicking them off into the shadows as she moves back to sit on the ledge at the back of the compartment. The safety lights are just enough for him to see her hand slipping down between her legs as she waits for him, touching herself, warming up that engine.

"Gonna make me wait all night?" she asks, and he shakes his head, stepping toward her and watching the color rise in her cheeks and the curve of skin visible above the neckline of her tanks, the hot glow of anticipation.

He reaches the back of the chamber and drops to his knees, because that's something else trainees learn on day one or two: to have some gods-damned manners about these things and make sure everybody gets theirs. She makes a throaty sound, almost a growl, as she curves one hand around the back of his head and guides him in, her fingers tensing and flexing against his scalp in silent cues as his tongue meets her flesh, hot and slippery and sour-sweet.

"Gods," she mutters, low and pleased, her clipped-off nails just dragging against his scalp. It's an old joke, why men in the Fleet cut their hair--so the women won't yank it out before they get good at this. Crashdown thinks of it every time, and it makes him laugh, a burst of warm air and vibration against her that makes her twist on the ledge and growl another curse.

Her left leg is over his shoulder, angled across his back, her heel against his ribs, digging and easing in a rhythm. He could toy with that rhythm, run it up and down like a Viper jock playing with his stick. It's another old joke, another laugh, another curse and a sharp thump of her foot in his ribs. Maybe he'll save that for next time, if there is one. Right now he wants--and she wants, by the getting-louder syllables above him in the hot, stale darkness of the Raptor--to get her off, make her come so he can press her against the wall and bury himself in her, frak her until they're both sweaty and spent and ready for another hand at the Triad game.

Her free hand smacks against the wall and she comes, hot and pulsing, and he teases her for another moment, dragging his tongue and the edge of his teeth against sensitized flesh until she digs her fingers against his skull again. "Frak me already, Crash, unless you already shot your wad or can't get it up at all, you son of a--"

He shuts her up by lifting her, bracing her against the wall with his weight until she can get her legs around his waist and guide him in. He hisses a sharp "Oh, _frak_ " and she gives a soft, breathless laugh of agreement. She tilts her head back, sweat-damp and disheveled hair rubbing against the bulkhead, the dull yellow glow of the safety lights highlighting the line of her collarbone, crossed by the chain of her dog tags. It runs down and vanishes under her tanks, with the beads of sweat that form and fall as he thrusts into her as slow and steady as he can manage, if not as much as he'd like.  
**  
She wins half of his credits and his last pair of clean socks in the last hand of Triad that night. He fingers the darkening bruise on his shoulder where her teeth sank in when he came and thinks that yeah, he still feels lucky anyway. Thank the Gods and the Fleet for flight-crew traditions, the ones they keep. And especially the ones they break.  



End file.
